


Courting

by Oienel



Category: Korean Actor RPF, Korean Drama
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dirty Talk, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Romance, Sugar Daddy, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 18:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8907490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oienel/pseuds/Oienel
Summary: Gong Yoo knows shit about courting woman, but he has one thing that helps him along.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yesterday I searched for Gong Yoo smut out there, and I found none. And that is a grave sin, so I sat down and wrote that. As always posted first on tumblr.

This job is everything you could have dreamed of. Every job you could manage while being a senior at the University is a good job, but the one that has satisfactory pay, social that you can’t really complain about, and it’s moderately easy? It’s a needle found in the stack of hay, really.

And on top of that, it’s one that you can put on your LinkedIn resume and it would actually give you some kind of experience.

It’s just an office work. Part time office work, where you are in charge of the department’s maintenance. You make sure that there are enough supplies for the “real” workers, that the paper still fills the copy machine, you make sure that there is enough coffee in the kitchen, and that there are energy bars hidden away in the cupboard. And then you make sure that invoices are filled correctly, and that the budget for the maintenance is managed.

It’s like a nail factory job. Once you learn what to do, it never changes. Only sometimes there is a new product, for which you need to find the right tax to fill it under, but that is the only “exciting” thing that happens at work.

Your colleagues are nice. You don’t really meet them, not for long at least, since it’s enough for you to come in for about an hour or two every day, and you usually do that after normal working hours. You quickly check for whatever might be lacking in the office, you send the order, you fill the documents, and you are out of the office, taking off the intern ID card, as you nod to the security guy.

*

“You.”

It’s Friday afternoon, late afternoon, slowly inching into the evening. You are at your desk, manicured fingers clicking on the keyboard, as you try to finish your documents quickly, so you can go out and have fun with your friends. Your last finals are coming, your last finals, before you graduate, and you want to get pissed before you have to change the gears and sit down to studying.

You look up, having thought that the office is empty. You see a man in his thirties, broad shoulders and narrow waist, fitted perfectly by grey, three-piece tailored suit with white shirt and matching tie. It screams _money,_ but not somehow not an _asshole._

You jump to your feet.

“Director Gong!” You exclaim, suddenly feeling inadequate, and wishing you haven’t dolled yourself up for a night out before coming to work. No one was supposed to be here, so you thought you would cut the travel time coming here already ready to go out.

You don’t look indecent, but your make-up is not really a make-up for office. The nice office, with glass, dark wood and metal furniture, sublime and elegant, doesn’t go well with little black dress and dark lipstick.

But he doesn’t seem to notice, as he dials somebody on his smartphone. Elegant cufflinks reflect the light of your lamp, as he raises his hand to his ear.

“You’ve put on your resume that you speak French.” He states as the sound of the call reaches your ears.

You are lost for words.

Yes, you did that. Your French is communicative enough for you to put it on your resume. Your accent is good enough to be understood by the natives, and your grammar is mostly right, with enough words to hold a conversation. But for the director of your branch to know what a mere intern put on her resume is unheard of.

At least in your opinion. You realize that he is staring at you, as he calls a cab. But it’s not directed here, he calls it for somebody at the airport.

“Was it a lie?” He says, and it dawns on you that it’s directed at you. That you haven’t confirmed whether you speak French.

“No, it wasn’t a lie–“ you sputter and then stop yourself. You inhale to calm your nerves, uncomfortable under your boss’ scrutiny. “I speak French communicatively.”

He nods and focuses back on his conversation. You stand here, the screen of your computer diming, not knowing what to do with yourself, waiting for a follow up.

“That will have to do.” He says finally, and turns around, walking quickly to the elevators. His steps are quiet, carpet muffling the sound of the heels of his brown, leather shoes.

He stops in his tracks after ten meters or so. He looks over his shoulder, a crease appearing between his eyebrows.

“Come, we need to get going.”

There is no room for questioning left. You scramble to get your belongings, that meaning your phone and black clutch.

You have no idea what is happening, but as you hurry to his side, your heels also muffled on the carpet, you realize that you are going to speak French tonight.

And that you are not going to go clubbing tonight.

He doesn’t say a word in the elevator, focused on the phone, and you are too scared to disturb him, your fingers clenching on the clutch. Next to him, you feel more like a slut than an office worker, and you consider wiping off the lipstick.

He leads you to his car. It also seems to be screaming _money_ , but it’s not convertible, and somehow it seems to be blending into its surroundings. It’s clearly European, the best money could buy, luxurious, but not pretentious. Only inside you feel how posh it is, with its wooden details and  light leather seats. You are afraid that you’ll stain it somehow.

He ignores you, stuffing his phone into a holder and putting on the headset.

You don’t sigh, but you fish your phone from your clutch and write a quick message about an emergency at work to your friends. You can’t even specify what kind of emergency is that, and you feel like you are lying.

“Cleared the schedule for the night?” He asks, brusquely, right hand unlocking his phone. You know he is talking to you, but he doesn’t look at you even once, and it feels rude.

But you will never accuse your boss of being rude.

Never.

“Yes, sir.” You confirm, managing not to sound devastated about that.

“Good.”

It’s the only thing you hear from him. No _thank you_ , no _I’m sorry,_ no explanation to what is happening. You turn to the window, watching the neon lights outside. It’s dark, the city very much alive, people burning Friday’s night. Streets are crowded, both with people and with cars, and you wish you could be out there, drinking first shots of your night, not stuck with your boss in his car, going devil-knows-where.

“You might want to get this lipstick off your lips.” You hear from behind you, and you turn around, in time stopping yourself from making a face. That was very rude! But director Gong continues. “We are going for a meeting with a French company we tried to sign for the last few months. Their CFO contacted me an hour ago that they have arrived at the airport and they want to meet, and I didn’t have time to contact our translator, so tonight you have to do the job.”

You freeze. Terrified. Positively terrified. It sounds like an important deal, and he wants you to translate it? Considering it’s a meeting with CFO they are going to talk finances, and you simply have no knowledge about that, not even going into your lack of vocabulary.

He stops at the light and yanks the glove compartment open. He fishes out the pack of tissues and wet tissues, and dumps them on your knees before his hands go back to the steering wheel.

You are hazed, but obediently, you take one of the wet tissues and open the sun shield, rightly guessing that you’ll find mirror there. You carefully, but meticulously wipe the color off your lips – making sure you won’t mess up the makeup around your mouth.

You close the sun shield when you are done, and you put the tissues back into the glove compartment. Your boss opens a trash for you, and you throw away the dirty tissue, throwing your night out of the window.

*

”We hope that the cooperation between our companies will be smooth and fruitful. We wish you a pleasant stay in our city,” says director Gong with a pleasant smile on his face, his right eye closing a tiny bit more than the left one.  He stands up after that, hands coming to fasten his jacket.

The French CFO does the same, as everybody around the table hurries in their tracks, chairs being pushed back, jackets fastened. You hurry to translate, now more confident than you were when your evening started.

“Nous espérons que la collaboration entre nos compagnies se passera bien et sera fructueuse. Nous vous souhaitons un agréable séjour dans notre ville.” Your voice is sure, and the accent is a little bit better now, after hours of listening to French natives speak. CFO smiles and extends his arm to your boss, and they shake their hands. Few more pleasantries are exchanged, director Gong shaking few more hands, and then the French delegation leaves the restaurant.

You have to admit that the last few hours were… Rich in experiences. You were translating business meeting over dinner, at one of the best restaurants your city has to offer, exquisite wine soothing your nerves, and even more exquisite food filling your stomach.

Director Gong turned out to be a very gracious host, and you suspect that he was carefully choosing his words, for you to be easier to translate them.

“Nothing is sure until we sign the deal, but… Good work,” says the director, as he motions to you to go first. You make a conscious effort not to trip, and to place your legs carefully, not to embarrass yourself as you walk out off the restaurant.

Thank god for the wine, otherwise, you’d spend the whole meeting feeling self-conscious about the black, short dress, you have on.

You stop walking in front of his car. He stops as well and turns around, some peculiar emotion on his face. It’s unreadable to you, but he looks a little bit as if he had realized something. He checks the hour on his watch, his cufflinks once again captivating you.

“The night is still young.” He states and you nod. It’s still before midnight. Director looks at you as if waiting for you to speak up, but you have nothing to say. “You could still go out, as, I assume, you were supposed to.”

“I plan to do so.” You answer, truthfully. You were planning to call your friends as soon as he drives away.

“Right.” He clears his throat. “Thank you for your work tonight, the firm is grateful.”

You nod, and you try to ignore the fact that he looks pained to admit that.

“So, good night.” He says finally and gets in his car. As soon as the safety belt is on, he is driving away.

*

On Sunday you start to study. You spend your whole day buried in your books, post-it-notes covering your walls and furniture, as you try to stuff all the things you should have learned this academic year into your head.

On Monday you are positively hazed and thoroughly done with studying, dreading the moment you’ll have to go back to it. And you know that every day for the next month you’ll be doing the same.

The first real break you get is when you arrive at the office. It’s not really a break since you have to work, but it’s mindless one, so it feels like a break. You check the inventory, you check the copy machines, you check the kitchen, and with a list, you go back to your desk.

It’s nice to have your own desk, even if you work up to two hours a day. Not counting Friday’s night. You did your overtime for the next three months.

You greet the colleagues that sit the closest to you, they will be leaving in the next fifteen minutes, and you slide down on your chair, putting your list next to your mouse.

That’s when you notice a small present box, in the perfect center of your desk. It looks like somebody measured where to put it, and the effort put into placing it makes you both amused and uncomfortable.

You reach for it, knowing that it is meant for you. Everybody knows it’s your desk since every desk has a name of its owner on it. You untie the elegant ribbon and lift the lid. On the soft padded cushion, you see a hand mirror and lipstick. The mirror is a small masterpiece, silver with lacquered still-life on its front, and intricate patterns chiseled into its back.

There is no note from whom it comes, but you somehow know, that the lipstick is going to perfectly match the shade you wore on Friday.

*

On Wednesday your phone starts ringing in the middle of the lecture. You are surprised, you thought that you put in on silence, but when you see a caller, you immediately apologize to the lecturer, grab your things and go outside.

Your work is never calling. They never have a reason.

You pick it up, unsure of what will happen. There is no greeting when you answer.

“Director Gong says that you speak French?” You recognize your team manager, and you hurry to confirm. You don’t have to since he doesn’t wait for you to answer. “We have an emergency and we need you to come here immediately.”

And he just hangs up.

You sigh, but you’ve been entertaining a thought of pursuing a full-time work at this company, so you just stuff your phone into your bag, along with the notebook you have in your hand, and you hurry to hail a cab.

You arrive at your workplace twenty minutes later, quite happy with your time.

The first person you see on your floor is director Gong, checking the hour on his expensive watch, navy suit clinging nicely to his arms and legs. Once again it’s a three-piece, with a dotted tie, its color matching the suit. This time he has a silver clip on it, and somehow you know it’s real silver.

He looks at you and then turns around calling his assistant. She comes nearly running, but you are not surprised, no one makes director Gong wait.

“She needs shoes.” He says, pointing at you, and after that, as if he hasn’t just turned you into a thing, he walks away. His assistant scans you, not rudely or condescending, she just checks what shoes would fit you, and you look down as well. You have fitted trousers with straight legs on and a white shirt. With right shoes (not sneakers) it could pass as elegant.

After asking for your size, she is out of the doors, and you are left next to the elevators, confused.

You are not stupid, so you guess that you are going to be translating again, probably the CFO, but it’s surprising that it’s you again. You find it unlikely that the French delegation hasn’t made an appointment, but even if, after their sudden arrival last Friday director Gong should have known that they can do that, and he should have been prepared.

It takes assistant about twelve minutes to come back with beige high heels. Good that your office is in the middle of a busy business district.

You put them on getting an extra height, and realize that they are a touch too small. You bite your lip realizing why did that happen. You told her a size one size smaller, knowing she will bring you high heels. And she probably thought that you told her the normal size, and she downgraded it as well.

You grit your teeth, wanting to focus on the fact that you are wearing the most expensive shoes you have ever worn. You aren’t poor, but well, you don’t really go around spending money on expensive shoes. Nor clothing. Nor anything really.

The assistant leads you urgently through the office, only now you realize how tense the air is. Everyone is working, but the nervousness can be felt in the lack of conversations, and quieter than the usual clicking of the keyboards. As if people were scared that if they are too loud they will become victims of somebody’s fury.

And you can guess who’s fury it might be.

Director Gong is pacing nervously in the conference room you are lead to. He gives you one-over when you enter, and goes back to his pacing, so you guess you have passed. The room is prepared, glasses and water, and fruits on the tables.

“You stand there.” He says showing the exact place with his finger. It’s behind the chair at the top of the table. His chair, from what you can tell. “Don’t screw it.”

*

You manage not to. The deal is signed, and both director Gong and French delegation are content enough to decide to eat lunch together. You are invited along, and your heart flutters a little at the prospect of expensive food.

You don’t fit into one elevator, so your boss lets the delegation take the first one. You don’t feel brave enough to point out that he should probably travel with CFO, not to be considered impolite.

Your elevator comes 10 seconds later, and he allows you to walk inside first. When the doors close after you, he speaks up.

“When you see me loosening my tie, excuse yourself and go to the toilet. Or inform that you have an important call to make, or whatever. Just, when you see me loosening my tie, make yourself scarce. Do you understand?”

You nod, not allowing yourself to be surprised.

*

He makes you leave the table three times. The first time you don’t see the sign until your boss clears his throat, his annoyance palpable. He laughs it off as food stuck in the wrong pipe, but after the first nearly-fiasco, you make sure to check on your boss discreetly every fifteen seconds.

Somehow the delegation doesn’t grow suspicious. Actually younger secretary goes after you when you excuse yourself for the third time, thankfully you notice him early enough to actually call someone (it would be weird if you have excused yourself to make a call, and you didn’t make one). After you are finished he asks for your number.

You are flattered, and your smile might be a notch brighter when you go back to the table.

Director Gong eyes you warily, but his hands stay off his tie until the end of the meal.

When it ends, and French delegation leaves, you take your sneakers out of your bag, wanting to relieve your feet. It was passable, but your soles are hurting, and you have a corn growing on your smallest toe.

“Something wrong with the shoes?” You look up at your boss, you were sure he left for the office.

“They are too small.” You admit, grabbing the high heels to stuff them into your bag, but director Gong takes them from you.

“Why?” He asks, grabbing them by the heels, to make the hold comfortable.

“There was a problem in the communication, sir.” You say, accentuating the _sir_ part, not knowing where the interest comes from.

“What kind of communication problem?” He presses, motioning you to go first.

“Both me and your assistant, sir– We both downgraded the size of my shoes, so in the end, it turned out to be one size too small.” You answer, at this point no longer wondering why you are answering that nor why he is asking. You start to learn that there is no point in second-guessing.

*

The next day you arrive around 6 pm, office deserted. You quickly make a list and walk to your desk.

Once again you find a box, this time bigger, but still in the geometric centre of the desk. The giver had to move your keyboard out of the way to achieve that.

You recognize the logo on the box – it’s the same company that made the shoes you were wearing yesterday.

You don’t have to check to know that this time the size will be perfect.

*

Next day, Friday, you forgo your last lecture to arrive at work early enough for you to have a chance to catch your boss.

How crazy is that even? An intern, mere intern! Waiting to catch her boss? Interns do everything they can, not to be seen by their bosses, and there you were actively trying to exchange few words with him.

And standing in front of his glassed-over office, with his blinds closed, you feel very much out of your depth. Your levels are too far apart, and the look his assistant gives you tells you just that.

What if people saw him leaving you presents on your desk? What would they be thinking about him? About you?

You look down at the linen bag in your hand, to assure yourself, and then you ask the assistant whether director Gong is in.

“Not for you.” She grunts, her eyes trying to tell you that you are way over your head. You know that. You _fucking_ know that, but you must put some things straight.

“I know, but I’ve been contacted by French delegation, and I have a message to give to him.” You lie through your teeth, and she seems to catch on that. She squints her eyes.

“I can pass it on.” She says, and you can feel your resolution falling apart. And the satisfied glint in her eyes tells you that she knows that.

“Let her in.”

You both jump in surprise, and you both look at the doors of the office. Today his hair is styled into coma hair, and dark, nearly black, gray suit, with black tie and white shirt makes him look as if he has a funeral to attend to.

You hope it won’t be yours.

His assistant knows better than to argue, so she just stares at you sternly, and you know that she is going to hold it against you.

He is still in the doors as you pass his assistant’s desk, and you are forced to slide into his office, with him still in the entrance. It’s close enough for you to feel the subtle, but pleasant, smell of cologne.

You love the smell of male cosmetics. There used to be a time when you were stealing shower gel from your roommates, at least until you’ve learned that you can buy male cosmetics for yourself. But the truth is, on a male body they smell way better.

And when they are this subtle? It’s divine, it’s like a secret you want to get privy to.

He closes the doors, and walks past you, once again giving you a chance to smell him, and then he sits down in his enormous chair. It looks sturdy and comfortable, and you are damn sure that it will hold more than one person.

So would his majestic desk.

“What is the message?” He asks. You don’t have enough decency to blush.

“Sir, I am sorry, I’ve lied.” You say bravely, one hand worrying the traps of your bag.

“I’ve figured.” He says, and you could swear that a light smile is playing on his lips. “So what made you look for me? Outside your usual working hours on top of that?”

You are not comfortable with him knowing what your usual working hours are.

“I am sorry, sir, but please allow me to be bold.” You say, and he raises his eyebrows. You notice that when he blinks, his right eye closes first. You take a deep breath to steady yourself and you place the linen bag on his desk. “Sir, I cannot accept that.”

He studies you for a second and then leans forward to turn the bag to himself. Inside there are two boxes. Shoes, mirror and lipstick.

He seems annoyed when he pushes it back to you.

“It’s a pay for your translation work.” He says sternly.

“Sir, then if the company wants to pay me for the work I did, please wire it to my account.” You answer equally sternly.

“You were already paid for your overtime. That is a way for the company to thank you for doing such a good job.” He says, flicking the strap of the bag into your direction as if to show you to take it.

“Which wasn’t necessary.” You say, looking him square in the eyes. That stops him. He blinks slowly, right eye closing first, with left following immediately after.

“What did you say?”

“Sir, I know you can speak French. That’s why you made me leave the table at the last dinner with the delegation. So they would feel comfortable enough to spill their secrets, believing that you wouldn’t understand.”

He leans back in his chair, watching you closely, clearly impressed, and you feel a pleasant tingle running down your spine.

“So you should also realize how important was your job. Without you working as a translator, I couldn’t have done it. And your limited vocabulary only helped in it.”

There went your pleasant tingle. But you have to admit, one has to be skillful to give a compliment, and then take it back in one sentence.

“So be a good girl, and take it.”

Now you were offended. _Be a good girl_? He put you down and made you feel like shit in less than twenty seconds.

But the job was good, so you grit your teeth, nearly blind from the fury flowing in your bloodstream, and you storm out.

Only back at home, you realize that you have grabbed the bag on your way out.

*

On the day of your last final the HR department contacts you offering a full-time job.

You take it.

You would be dumb not to. Your salary would be enough for you to lease a small flat. This kind of independence as soon as you finish your studies? It would be everything you could wish for.

The significant part of your signing bonus goes to fill your closet with appropriate clothes, so you spend the whole evening before your first real day at work picking the perfect outfit. The longest you spend on shoes, knowing which pair would go the best with your clothes, but not really wanting to wear it.

You’ve never threw _that_ pair out. How could you? It fits you perfectly, and it is the most luxurious piece of clothing you own. The other pair would also fit this particular outfit, but… The first one has this professional air about it, and…

In the end, you swallow your pride, and you leave your small flat, with your best heels clicking on the pavement.

At work, you are greeted with smiles and congratulations, and _we were betting whether you’ll come to us_. You stay at your desk, and you still have to fill the maintenance position, but now you are yours department researcher.

Which is good, since you are actually working in a field you’ve trained for.

And it’s easier because you already know your way around the office, and you know the people, and you don’t feel lost. Even if the first task you get is quite a heavy one, you get to work with an enthusiasm of a person, that is not afraid of failing.

You don’t realize it’s time to go until your team manager knocks on the wall of your cubicle.

“I know you’ve never worked 9 – 5 hours, but you know, it’s time to call it a day.” He laughs and looks around at the rest of the team. “Let’s go out for the drinks! We need to welcome our rookie properly!”

Disharmonious agreeing shouts fill the air, as your colleagues realize that they are going to get drunk, on company’s money.

You laugh, as you start packing your bag. Only then you realize that on the stack of post-it notes you have on your desk (you haven’t used them yet), there is a business card holder. You suck in a shaky breath, recognizing the lacquered surface and silver body. Inside you find a stack of your business cards. They are simple and elegant, with every information needed.

You contemplate it for a second, before throwing it into your bag with a sigh.

*

After the third shot of a liquid, clear fire, you are definitely having fun. Your team is loud, and obnoxiously so, but it doesn’t irritate you. You laugh with them, you eat with them, you joke with them, and together you make the bill grow, in hopes to milk the company’s card.

“Director!” Girl sitting in front of you is already pissed, and she is giggling as she waves to somebody at the doors. She then leans forward to you. “He is still single, girl! But hands off, I am going to seduce him!”

“Seduce him, my ass.” Grunts the guy sitting next to her, disgust on his face, and you suddenly remember that they are engaged. The hilarity of the situation makes you forget about the person coming until they steal the stool from another table and put it next to you.

It is, in the end, the only place where there is still some space left, but everyone needs to move their stools, to accommodate newly arrived.

“Director, you came!” Sing-songs your manager, and you turn to look at him, already red on his face. He winks at you, speaking loud, but trying to make it sound conspiratorial. “I called director Gong, so he would pay our bill!”

The table laughs, and you finally turn the other way to face your boss. You have barely seen him since the time you stormed out of his office. He still has his hair styled into coma hair, bangs boyishly covering half of his forehead, but with his grayish-blue two-piece with striped collar shirt and tone darker tie he looks out of place, among metal, tattered tables made of barrels with barbeque stoves mounted in the middle of it, green bottles and equally green leaves adorning the table.

He waves his hand good-naturedly when your drunk colleagues start to chant his name, as a way to thank him for treating you to this dinner and picks a shot glass, when team leader scrambles to pour him a shot.

At first, you feel uncomfortable, but soon you realize that he doesn’t seem to even remember that you stormed out on him. Or maybe he doesn’t care.

So you go back to laughing and joking, and you only get quiet when director joins in with the jokes. You usually busy yourself with eating, until the moment passes, or you can engage somebody in conversation.

Few rounds and more than few servings later, the engaged couple starts to argue again, and the group focuses on picking on you.

“It’s not like we are picking on you! It’s just we try to give you a good advice.” Your team leader hickups, and you try to cover your laugh. “Look at them,” his hand flails into the vague direction of the bickering couple.” Do you think it’s worth it? It’s good that you are single, enjoy as long as you can!”

Table laughs.

“But who told you she is single?” Suddenly asks the director, and you turn to him horrified. The whole table gets quiet, and director looks around, clearly confused, and then he looks at you. He is a little bit out of focus, and you are terrified. Positively terrified. “Wait, what happened to the French guy?”

“French guy– ?” You ask dumbfounded, and the table seems to be echoing you. Suddenly you catch on. “Are you talking about this guy from the French delegation, the one I–“

“–the one you gave your number to.” Helpfully offers director Gong, and you laugh loudly and freely. And there you were so terrified.

“Oh, no there is nothing between us. We just fucked once, and that–“ Only raised eyebrows, and staggered laughter informs you that you may have said something you wouldn’t have, had you been sober. You scrunch your face and bite your lips, not happy with yourself.

The mood at the table is shifting and you don’t know how to put it back on tracks.

“So.” Prompts the engaged girl.” Are French really this good?”

The wave of laughter swipes over the table, and right mood is back. You go into the joke, head first, thankful for the way out.

At the end of the night, you can proudly say that you are still standing. Which means that you have to call cabs for nearly everyone, and make sure that you stuff them into the back of the arriving cars.

By the time you are done, the director is the only one that’s left.

“Should I call a cab for you, as well?” It’s too late when you realize that you dropped the honorifics. He shakes his head, stuffing his hands into his pockets, and you are suddenly reminded how broad his shoulders are.

“Congratulations on getting the job.” He says, and you nod, deciding that calling him on the fact, that he is probably the one behind your job offer, would be counterproductive. And you are thankful either way. “Are you waiting for a cab?”

“No, I am good enough to just take a bus.” You say, nodding in the direction of the bus stop.

“I called designated driver, we could drop you off?” He muses, and you shake your head.

“Thank you, there is no need, sir.” You say, and he nods, looking away. It’s getting awkward, so you excuse yourself. As you do so, his eyes fall on your feet, still sporting the heels you got from him, and his head snaps up.

You want to kick yourself, but you say your goodbyes and walk away.

*

Next day your team is so hangover that they don’t manage to do anything. So your day is mostly lazy, and you spend a half of it playing around with the business card holder. It’s beautiful, really, smooth and cold in your hand, so professional that you cannot bear a thought of throwing it away, nor giving it back. You can imagine yourself reaching into your purse to retrieve a card, and opening this little guy to take one out.

It made you imagine a different scene. You in your beautiful heels on the arm of a tall, broad-shouldered guy, with the right eye a little smaller than the left once.

Who decided to pass by your team’s space at the same exact moment.

You scramble to hide your cardholder, and you elbow the wooden wall in the process, and you hide, your head laying on the desk, both from pain and embarrassment.

To your utter mortification, you realize that somebody is standing over your cubicle.

You take a deep breath and try to straighten yourself, your eyes following the lines of a vibrant navy three-piece suit, completed with blue striped collar shirt, navy dotted tie, silver clip, silver cufflinks and a freaking handkerchief in the pocket.

“I may need your expertise.” Director Gong whispers and looks around. He looks so boyish now, not so put together like he always is. The question must have shown on your face because your boss seems a tiny bit embarrassed as he nods to the cubicle next to you.” Your neighbor is sleeping.”

You crane your neck, and just as your boss said, the guy in the next cubicle is sleeping.

You bite your lips to stop yourself from laughing, and you throw your phone and your cardholder into your purse.

Only when you stand up you realize that director was watching you, hawk-like, when you stuffed the cardholder in your bag.

*

It turned out that your expertise was needed in _Pimiento,_ a restaurant which your boss took you too. They were serving mindblowing steaks, Argentinean beef, which topped with wine were leaving you speechless.

You weren’t talking, opting for savoring the texture, the fragrance, the divine taste. Director was watching you eat, over his own plate, a slight smile dancing on his lips.

After the plates from the main dish disappeared, and your boss ordered the desserts, you decided to speak up.

“Sir, what kind of expertise do you need?” You think you know the answer. And it’s not the answer you are going to like.

“Was it good?” He asks, with a joking note in his voice. As you thought, you are not liking his answer.

You put the wine glass down.

“Sir.” You say sternly, and you notice him hunch a little, like a boy that realizes he is going to be scolded. “You can’t take me out to lunch during business hours – you shouldn’t do it after hours either!” You realize that he wanted to speak up, so you corrected yourself. It was a lucky guess, but his sigh tells you, you were right. “It’s just, you are my boss. Actually, you are boss of my boss! It’s unethical, and I don’t even understand why you are doing that!”

As soon as those words leave your mouth it hits you. Of course, you know why. It’s so easy and evident and obvious, it’s so clear that you want to laugh at how stupid you were being.

“Sir.” You prompt, and he looks at you, from under his eyebrows.”Director Gong. Gong Jicheol.” He straightens in his seat hearing his name, and you can’t believe how daring you are. “You like me.”

The statement resonates between you, and right then comes your waiter with your deserts. Director is forced to hold a pleasant conversation with a man hoping for a good tip, but he doesn’t stop looking at you. You can feel the amusement and warmth filling you up.

Finally, the waiter walks away, and you slowly cut a small bite out of your meringue and you eat it, staring at your boss.

He is the first one to break the eye contact, focusing on his crème brûlée.

“I would rather you used a word _fancy._ I haven’t liked anybody since High School.” You cannot contain your laugh at that.

He grows silent after that. He doesn’t speak when you finish your deserts, he doesn’t really look at you when he pays and when he walks you to his car. You know that you have hurt his feelings, but the thing is, to cheer him up, you need to discern your own feelings. You cannot jump into something you are not ready for. Somebody might call you stupid for not jumping head first since he has money, and he could make your life great, but–

When you arrive at yours office garage, he steps out of the car, and you expect him to rush to the elevators, but he stays to wait for you.

When you get out, he takes a deep breath.

“I am sorry, that I have inconvenienced you, if you wish to resign, I will write you a recommendation.” His voice is dry and businesslike, and he even extends his hand to shake yours. As if that was a business meeting that didn’t go as planned, but one has to stay civilized.

You would be offended if you haven’t realized that it’s how he copes with being rejected. The thing is he is not yet rejected.

You bite the inside of your cheek, finding it refreshing how much power you hold over a guy that in every other aspect of your life is holding power over you. How this silent man, who made you jump in fear no longer than 5 weeks ago is now doing his best not to show how badly you’ve hurt him.

So you take his hand, thinking that you might have done worse than this, and you shake it, as you fight your growing smile at what is about to come.

He nods, lips tight and he tries to turn around, but your grip on his hand is sure. He looks first at your hand, and then at your face, and he clears his throat.

“Excuse me–“ He starts, but you don’t let him finish, when you go for the most cliché thing in the world, as you take a step to him, and raise on your toes (you can’t really raise any more, since you are already taller thanks to your heels, _those_ heels), and you peck his lips, getting him down to your lips level by tugging the lapel of his jacket.

It’s just that, a quick peck, your eyes open, his eyes open.

And you take a step back.

He is frozen, looking at you, searching your face, hunched over in the position in which you left him, and then he moves, quickly, swiftly, his hands on your jaw, as he brings you forward with his hands, and pushes you back with his body, until the back of your legs hit his car.

And he kisses you. Hungrily, deeply, demanding, pleading, taking. His lips are soft, and for a guy that seems to be lacking knowledge how to court a girl, he kisses like playboy, teasing you, making you dizzy and yearning for more.

By the time he finishes, you see dark spots behind your eyes, your chest heaving wildly, his heavy breath fanning your face as he puts his forehead to yours, your jaw still in his hands. Your lipstick is probably mostly on his lips now, but it’s not like you care, your hands on his back, and legs wobbly.

“I knew that the way to your heart will lead through your stomach.” He says playfully, more purring than speaking, his lips teasing yours once again. You can’t help but laugh.

*

Next day you don’t find a present at your desk. No, it’s not that easy.

But when you come back from checking the inventory you notice unfamiliar purse, where yours should be. You open it, noticing not so subtle leather LV tag on one of the straps, and you realize that everything that was in your purse is now in this one. But somehow your vanity case is now matching your new purse, and the sunglasses inside your case are different, it’s safe to say, a little bit more expensive.

You shake your head, and grab the thing, and make your way through the office. You stop at the boss office, his assistant, a guardian dog, present.

“I have an expertise for Director Gong. He asked for it yesterday.” You say, but before the girl gets a chance to deny you entrance (and both of you know she would), the doors swing open.

“Let her in.” He echoes his words from a few weeks earlier, with the same emotionless face. He is wearing gray two-piece with a white button up and navy tie, and you idly wonder how many suits he owns.

You walk past the desk of the assistant with an air of confidence, and once again you are forced to fit between his body and the wall – you might have decided to brush the soft suit this time.

He smells great.

He closes his doors behind you and walks past you to his chair, and everything echoes the last time you met there. You are thankful for the blinds being closed.

You throw the bag on his desk.

“What the fuck is that?” He looks surprised, but he obediently checks the tag.

“I would say that’s a Louis Vuitton’s purse.” One of his eyebrows is raised, and you realize that he is playful. He is proud of his present, he feels sneaky. And you can see that on his face.

You sigh, and you walk around his majestic desk, and he moves his chair to face you. Or rather to welcome you, as he tugs you close as soon as you are within his reach.

“You don’t have to do that.” You say, digging your heels into the carpet, so he can’t drag you down onto his knees. You’d love to sit down, but now you are speaking from the position of power. So he might listen.

From his knees, you wouldn’t do much talking.

“But I like to.” He says, his thumb caressing the top of your hand.

“But it makes me uncomfortable.” You say, and he shifts in his seat, uneasy. “It’s expensive and I don’t know what I can give you in return.”

His answering smile is blinding.

“You don’t have to give me anything, you see? It’s a present, one I want to give you from my heart. How could I give expecting something in return?” You decide it won’t be wise to mention that is exactly how the world works.

“But you do know that kind of makes you into my sugar daddy? And that is a little bit awkward, don’t you think?” His face falls, as he considers that. You feel pity for him and you are satisfied that your point is coming across, so you just slide down and sit sideways on his lap, resting one of your hands on his nape.

As you thought this chair was made to hold a pair.

His eyes search your face as if he was trying to commit to memory your features, and you feel worshiped.

So you decide to be a benevolent god.

“Let’s decide that you’ll buy me something on big occasions? And I will be a good girl and I will take it without nagging you again.”

His smile grows bigger, more lewd. He leans forward and kisses you, your lower lip catching between his.

“You’ll be a good girl and you’ll take it.” He repeats and you groan, standing up, and taking the purse off his desk.

“What?!” He whines after you, but you can hear the pride in his voice.

“Thank you for the purse!” You say, just before you open the doors.

*

The next day you find a bracelet on your desk. It’s exquisite, intricate and so delicate that you fear that you might break it just by holding it. You don’t even think about it, you just see it, take it, and you go to visit your annoying… What? Boyfriend? Partner? Boss?

As always, she is at the doors, guarding the entrance. She might have realized that once again director would let you in, so she speaks up first.

“Do you have a message to pass on or is it an expertise, or maybe some research?” You had a speech prepared, but you lost it when she spoke. You start to panic, scrambling for words when the doors open.

“Let her…” You are fast enough to push your way past him, even before he finishes. He is surprised, but he closes the doors, and you turn around, ready to catch him by his tie, but–

It’s not here. He doesn’t have his tie on. He doesn’t even have a collar shirt.

You are speechless, and you eye him in his gray suit and a black t-shirt underneath, how it compliments his dark skin, and how his broad shoulders seem to pop out, and how the fabrics are clinging to the line between his deltoid and biceps, and you nearly forgot why you’ve stormed inside.

And he is proud of himself. You can see it in his movements, how he stretches his arm, and how he cocks his hips, and you hate him and want him at the same time.

But you, you have a mission.

“I thought we agreed that you’d buy me something only on a big occasion!” You say wanting to dangle the bracelet in front of his face, but you are afraid to do so, in case you damage it.

“Oh, it is a big occasion.” He says seriously. “It’s our third day together.”

You stare at him, incredulous, lost for words, feeling how your eyes nearly pop out of your skull, feeling that a migraine is coming.

You take a deep breath, feeling that you don’t have enough strength to stomach it, and you just pass him to go out.

He catches your arm and uses it to bring you flush against him, and you feel the soft cotton of his shirt and steel muscles underneath. You are annoyed, and you want to go, so you can calm yourself down, but you don’t want to leave his warm embrace.

“I hoped we’d go outside today?” He says into your hair.

“Outside.”

“Yeah, like a date? It’s Friday.” You look up at him, he is biting his lip waiting for you to answer, and you reach up to caress his hair.

“Yeah, we can go.”

*

When he pulls up in front of a luxurious restaurant, the one even you know was awarded Michelin star, you sigh.

He hears it and turns to you.

“You don’t like it here?” He asks, but you can see that he is confused.

“How about we cook something together for a change?” You ask. You don’t want to make him spend any more money, even though you know he can, and you know he wants too.

Thankfully, he looks borderline thrilled.

In the grocery store, he doesn’t behave like it’s his first time there, but he can’t stop touching you. Which you have nothing against, really. Hand on the small of your back, as you walk together down the aisle, or your fingers entwined together, or his lips on your forehead, or his hand on your stomach as he holds you when he reaches over you to reach a product you can’t.

To your surprise (and annoyance) he is more skilled in the kitchen than you are. His hands are more sure, and his cuts are even, and he chops faster.

“Is there something you can’t do.” You say, and he smiles, focused on chopping the onion. He is not even crying for fuck’s sake. “Except for courting woman.”

The last one was meant as a jab. Obviously.

“I beg to differ, I can court a woman.” He says and looks up. You are captivated by his face and his uneven eyes. “I wooed you.”

You can’t really argue this logic so you don’t.

It’s nice watching him, and surprisingly he doesn’t look out of place in your apartment. It’s small and cramped, and your man is big, but he doesn’t have a problem with moving around your miniature kitchen (which is connected with your living room and your dining room, and it’s still miniature). Maybe that’s why when you first saw him you thought that his altitude screams _money,_ not an _asshole_. He simply knows how to fit in.

Fried rice is delicious, way better than anything you could have whipped out, and once again you are annoyed.

“Can you stop being so perfect.” You whine out somewhere in the middle of the dinner, and he laughs, his hand moving to caress your hair.

“You deserve the perfection.” It’s cheesy and corny, but you can feel yourself getting hot and you look at him in silence.

He sports a warm smile as he continues to caress your hair, but his face slowly falls, as he observes your face.

“What?” He asks, scared. You inhale through your nose.

“Jicheol.”

It’s one word, only one word, but his hand stills and then falls down to the table. He looks at you in silence, nostrils flaring, and suddenly, you are pushing your chair away from the table, and you hear him do the same, and his hands are on your face, and you both move so the table is not blocking you, and he does the same thing he did when you kissed for the first time. His hands bring your head forward, to meet him halfway, but his body is pushing you back until you are trapped between him and the wall, but you don’t mind. You love being shielded from the outside world by his broad shoulders and muscled torso, with his tongue licking urgently into your lips. Now without your heels, you are too small to be kissed comfortably, and even though you are standing on your toes, wanting to be as close to him as possible, he only groans, picking you up and once again slamming you at the wall.

Your back hurts a little, but the new angle makes it easier to kiss him, and your ankles hook behind his narrow waist, and his muscles rip to keep you up, and he is very much focused on stealing your every breath, and you are left to kiss him, and rut into his stomach.

He groans once again, his hands falling down to your ass, and his fingers dig into the flesh covered by two layers of clothes, and you whine instinctively. He uses his hold to bring you up, your elbows resting on his shoulders to keep yourself at the height he wants you to be, and then he moves back, his body leaning backwards to support your weight, and that’s _fucking_ hot and you moan urgently into his mouth, as you bite his lower lip.

Your back hits the edge of a fridge, when he tries to walk past it, and you leave his lips to groan in pain, but a second after you are biting the shell of his ear, and once again he secures his hold under your thighs, and now he can see because you are attacking his ear and neck, and he is only breathing heavily, not from strain, but arousal.

Once again your back hits something, and you realize that this time it’s a door to your bedroom, and you free one of your hands to search for the handle, and he stumbles inside, nearly losing his balance, and you are clutching to him in fear for your life, and then you reach the bed.

He has enough strength to put you down on the mattress, bending down. But you don’t let him out of your hold when he tries to stand up straight, and he just laughs, and doesn’t fight, and lets you keep him down.

And then he is kissing you again, and your hips come off the mattress and you are rubbing yourself on his crotch and he is groaning into your mouth.

“Wait– We can’t just if we want to– Stop, wait!” You may be a little bit incoherent, high on his touch, smell, body. He manages to extract himself from your hold, and you whine softly, but when you see him standing up, and shedding his jacket, he has your full attention.

Broken only for a moment, when you take off your blouse hastily and you throw it to the floor. Compared to you, he makes a show of taking his t-shirt off. Rightly, so. With this kind of body? You would too.

He shows you his torso slowly, dragging the black fabrics up, revealing row after row of abdominal muscles, moving under his skin, ripping it, and your mouth water. And you can feel yourself watering down there as well.

And he is proud of himself. He is so proud, his eyes sparkling, his lips stretched in a broad smile.

So you take off your bra.

That gets his attention. He seems positively hypnotized, and you look him in the eyes as you pop the button of your fly open.

He keens in the back of his throat, a broken, beautiful sound, and then he takes off his suit pants, and underwear, and his legs are muscled and visibly strong, but as you look at his hips, you wonder whether you’ll be up to your task.

But nothing will stop you from trying.

You jump to your feet, still on the bed, to drag your pants off, and suddenly Jicheol is all over you, his face buried into your stomach, his hands on your ass, and he sucks the skin just above your pants into his mouth and he marks you, and you can only push his head even closer to your skin. Even though it’s not possible.

And then he is sliding his hands into your pants, finally his hands on your bare skin, and he drags your pants down until you stand stark naked. As he is.

He dips a little bit down, groaning as your smell reaches him, and he licks a straight stripe along your labia, and your stomach hollows, as you keen and bend, your hands on his shoulders, searching for support.

His hands are on your hips, and his muscles flex as he holds you in place as his tongue teases you, running up and down, only to flatten itself on your clitoris, or dip inside you.

You are shaking on your legs even more so that the mattress is not really sturdy, and you wonder in the midst of pleasure clouding your mind, what have you done to him that he makes to go through this torture while standing.

“Jicheol.” You whine, trying to get his attention, but he is too lost in giving you pleasure, and you have to appreciate that. You try to move back to lose your balance, trusting that your bed will be enough to cushion the fall, but he senses your movement, and he _stills_ you, and his mouth encloses your clitoris.

You do scream.

“Jicheol!” You scream again, yanking his hair, and finally he moves away, the bottom half of his face shiny and glistening, and your breath hitches from how sexy and obscene he looks.

Your stomach heaves as you look down at him.

“I– I might have to– Lay down.” You say finally, and the smile you get could illuminate a small city for a week. You immediately regret voicing this one thought out.

“Of course, my dear. I will go fetch condoms in the meantime.” You try to ignore his attempt at being a gentleman in the middle of sex. He disappears, but you get a nice look at his tight ass and exquisite back muscles, already a little sweaty, as he walks out.

You drop to the bed, breathing heavily, and trying to calm yourself down. You want this to last.

When he gets back, you kind of feel like you are looking at the Greek god statue – muscles so perfect and distinct – except for one tiny difference. His dick is definitely bigger, big enough, you’d say, and now it’s proudly leaning against his ripped stomach.

You may have or may have not moaned at the sight, but who would have blamed you.

He climbs on the bed and moves over you on all fours. It makes you laugh and makes you a little bit less overwhelmed. He kisses you fondly and then whispers against your lips.

“I left my job unfinished, down there, so be a good girl, and wait here.” You are confused for a moment, but then he flashes you _that_ smile, and he crawls down, and you have enough time to grab the pillow over your head, and then he is back between your legs, his tongue flat on your clitoris, his arm thrown over your stomach to keep you down.

Because you move. A lot. You arch your back, your hips buckle, your legs shaking and bending and straightening, when you fight with the pleasure you cannot fight with.

And he is way too enthusiastic between your legs, toying with your clitoris or licking deep into you, the fingers of the arm that is not holding you down creeping inside you along his tongue.

You’ve broken out in sweat, your body wet, your eyes wet, tears gathering in their corners, and finally, finally your pelvic floor muscles cramp, and you emit a throaty groan, fingers digging into fabrics, as your mind whitens, and Jicheol reappears from between your legs, his chin resting on the juncture between your leg and hip, all sticky and glistening, and he watches your face go slack as you come.

It takes you a while before you are more or less coherent again, and he doesn’t move from between your legs, looking like a cat that finally got its cream.

Which in a very twisted and kinky way is true.

He sees you looking down, and he smiles at you and kisses the skin where his chin was just resting.

“And now, I will fuck you.”

Your muscles cramp, and you feel very much empty, and getting hot again. From one sentence.

“Please, do so.” You wheeze, pushing to him the condoms’ box, he left next to your head earlier. He opens the box and fishes out one package.

“Who would have thought, one orgasm and suddenly you are polite and civilized.” You show him a finger, to which he reacts by grabbing your hand and sucking your finger into his mouth. You whimper, but you don’t dare to look away. He secures his hold on your middle finger, with his teeth on its base, and he works on putting the condom on.

He lets go off your finger only when the condom is on and secure. He brings one of your legs up on his shoulders, so you move to do the same with the other leg, but he stops you.

“You could use some stretching.” He says cheerfully, and you are getting annoyed.

“Bite me.” You snap at him and he leans forward, your hips come off the mattress to cushion the stretch. It dips on the other side of being painful, and it makes you a little more hot. He kisses you all windy and sharp, and you hold him down with your hands.

You love to kiss him, his lips soft and perfect and knowing exactly how to wake you up.

He drives into you in the middle of the kiss, and your eyes just fall open, mouth parting in a silent, but heartfelt scream.

The stretch in your tendons is a little bit too much, and his weight on you is sensual, and he seems to be stimulating every single nerve inside you, and his broad chest is covering you, and you feel safe and warm, and very much aroused, and he is snapping his hips just right, and with enough force to move you up and down the bed, and you feel his smooth skin under your fingertips, and he is spitting filth into your ear, _how tight and hot you are, how your muscles are contracting around him, how he’d love to bind you and fuck you senseless until you are too gone to even try to ask him to stop, how you’d beg for him for it, and then you’d beg for it to stop, body oversensitive, and–_

You are seeing white for the second time, sprawling boneless on the bed, too gone to care about anything else than his presence, his breath, his voice, his body, his skin, his weight, his penis.

He fucks you through your second orgasm, stretching it on,  but he doesn’t stop there. He keeps going, steadily, but strongly, fucking you with long precise strokes, but quick enough for you to be lifting your hips, body caught between wanting to run away from the feeling and wanting to feel him deeper, more fully (if that was even possible). It hurts and it’s uncomfortable, legs having fallen asleep long ago, your muscles cramping madly, you trashing on the bed, groaning and wheezing, and suddenly his fingers clench on your hips, as his own stutter, and you open your eyes just in time to see his face go slack.

Your leg falls down, and it cramps so bad that you cry out loud, but you nonetheless lean forward to kiss him, more than thrilled that he came.

His kiss is sloppy and out of focus, and he rolls off you, and you have to move to the side, so he can fit on the bed. It’s ridiculous.

He takes two deep breaths, and he sits up, and you hate how good his stamina is. He goes to your toilet, and from the sounds, he discards the condom and cleans his dick, and after that, he comes back. He still looks stunning, and you wonder what have you done to deserve this man.

He smiles at you in the doors, sated and satisfied, his right eye nearly disappearing, and you can’t do anything except for reciprocating his smile.

*

You won’t say that you spend your weekend in your flat, fucking (being fucked) senseless.

But that would be true.

So when you arrive at work on Monday’s morning, you can safely say that you are happy and relaxed. You notice that the blinds are down at Jicheol’s office, meaning he is already inside. He left your place at an ungodly hour so he could prepare for work.

You applauded his dedication while turning on the other side in your bed. Not that sleeping with Jicheol isn’t incredible. It is. But sleeping, in the meaning of spending the night comatose together in your bed? That proved to be a little bit tricky. Not only he is a very active slipper, turning around and bucking, but he is a _fucking_ octopus, always managing to cage you in your sleep, making it impossible to get up. You love his muscles, you really do, but they equal to a lot of dead weight when he is not controlling them.

You greet your team, and they _do_ comment on your glow, which makes you smile broadly. Just like Jicheol usually does.

In perfect mood you sit down at your desk, noticing a small black jewelry box in the middle of your desk. You sigh. He might have needed time to put it here before people came to work.

But you take it, and you open it.

In the first moment, you freeze, your heart dropping to your stomach, as you see a ring. But it lasts only a second when you notice that it’s definitely too big and too sturdy for your fingers.

But it has a perfect width for–

You turn around in your seat eyeing the glass office. His assistant sees you looking, and she squints her eyes at you. You also notice blinds in the office shaking, meaning that somebody was watching what was happening outside.

You take a deep breath and clenching present in your hand, you stand up to have another fight.

He _fucking_ gave you a silver _cock ring._

 


End file.
